The poet welcomes these new additions to his company: for, since his arrival in Pisa, he has begun to entertain men at dinner-parties, for the first time since leaving England. A very cheerful company sits down with him to dinner: their host displays himself to great advantage, "being at once," to quote Shelley, "polite and cordial, full of social hilarity and the most perfect good humour, never diverging into ungraceful merriment, and yet keeping up the spirit of liveliness throughout the evening." Byron, according to his own declaration, has never passed two hours in mixed society without wishing himself out of it again. Nobody, however, could guess at this fact from his bright, frank, and spontaneous gaiety. Always an abstemious eater--"I have fed at times for over two months together," he assures his friends, "on sheer biscuit and water,"--very little food suffices him: and besides, _bien entendu_, he is anxious to retain that "happy slenderness" on which he prides himself,--the slenderness which is a characteristic of his family, and which he has recently endangered by a lazy life in Venice. The guests sit fascinated by his enthralling personality: they recognize that he wears a natural greatness which "his errors can only half obscure:" and they rivet their gaze upon that pale and splendid face, the only one, as Scott says, that ever came up to an artist's notion of what the lineaments of a poet should be. He looks around him upon the ethereal and feminine countenance of Shelley, the visionary,--the kind, pleasant, honest English faces of Medwin and Williams,--the good-looking Italian Gamba, the quaint little Irishman Taafe,--last, not least, the dark mustachios and wildly-flashing Celtic eyes of the Cornish adventurer Trelawny. This latter might well have served for a model of Conrad the Corsair: and so he is assured by his companions.
"Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale The sable curls in wild profusion veil.... His features' deepening lines and varying hue At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view."
"Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, The worst of crimes had left her woman still! This Conrad mark'd, and felt--ah! could he less?-- Hate of that deed, but grief for her distress." _(The Corsair._)